Nightstalkers

CHAPTER 8

Roland stood on the open ramp, fifteen thousand feet above Utah, as calm as if he were waiting in line at Starbucks. Of course, Roland had never waited at a Starbucks, but one gets the idea. They were at fifteen thousand AGL because any higher and everyone inside would have to be on oxygen. As it was, the breathing was hard. Roland was looking down. It was easy to see I-15 running north to south. The glow of Salt Lake City was north of their current location. Eagle had offset a horizontal mile from the Flying H Truckstop where Ms. Jones told them the van was located. At least where the van’s GPS tracker was, Nada reminded everyone. The two might no longer be connected.

“Go,” Eagle announced.

Roland stepped off into darkness. He spread his arms and legs, got stable, then pulled the ripcord. The opening shock jerked him upright, and he looked up to make sure he had good canopy while he grabbed the control toggles for the chute.

Above him, Moms waited until the ramp was shut before issuing her next order. “Eagle, get us to five hundred AGL, into hover mode, and be ready to move in fast if Roland has any problems.”

Five hundred was the altitude at which the Snake could hover and not be heard at all by anyone on the ground.

“Don’t hit Roland on the way down,” Mac added, because Mac always had to add something.

It didn’t even occur to Roland that he might get hit by the Snake dropping altitude. He was focused on the truck stop and the area around it. So far, everything looked normal as he watched an eighteen-wheeler pulling out of the stop and turn onto the ramp for the interstate.

As he passed through eight thousand feet he spotted the van. Parked in the shadows, away from the bright lights of the truck stop and filling station. At least the Courier had done that according to Protocol.

“Eagle, thermals around the van,” Roland asked as he adjusted his descent.

“Very slight heat sigs coming from the driver’s compartment of the van,” Eagle said. “Doc, take a look. The sig isn’t right. I’m going lower.”

Roland was using a clockwise spiral to descend, checking all directions.

Doc’s voice came over the net. “You’ve got two warm spots in the front of the van.”

Two? That wasn’t good, Roland thought.

Doc continued. “But, ah, I’d say we have two corpses losing body heat. Not hot enough, even through the roof of the van.”

“Any other heat sigs?”

“Closest human is refueling over by the pumps,” Eagle said. “Couple of deer in the field to the west about five hundred meters out.”

Roland was about to pass through four thousand feet. He took a moment to ready his MP-5 on top of his reserve. The M-240 machine gun was on his side, rigged tight against his body. He reversed his spiral, because Protocol said he was to reverse directions after passing through four thousand feet. Why? He’d never thought to ask.

“Wind?” Roland asked.

“From the north-northwest at twelve knots, gusting to eighteen,” Eagle reported. “You’re still clear. We’re holding at five hundred, to the west, offset three hundred meters. I’m deploying the gun if you need backup.”

Roland didn’t bother to look in that direction. If Eagle said that’s where the Snake was, that’s where the Snake was.

When Roland hit two thousand AGL, he started dumping air, accelerating his descent because he was in range of someone firing from the ground and there was no point in taking his time. He made one last curve, had his approach set, and then aimed straight for the van, still dumping air. Roland had perfected the craft of driving a parachute into an art over the course of 1,342 free-fall jumps.

Thirty feet above the van, he flared the chute, breaking his rapid descent so that when he landed on the roof, the only sound was the thud of his boots like a heavy gong, and not the crack of bones breaking. There is a fine line between the two.

From the wind report, Roland knew he had to cut loose the chute or get blown off the top of the van by a gust. He popped the quick releases on his shoulders, then grabbed the MP-5 and did a quick three-sixty.

Nothing close.

Roland aimed the gun down. He knew the specs. The roof was armored. If anyone was alive inside they knew something had come down on top of them. Roland swapped out the MP-5 for the M-240, preferring the heavier firepower.

Roland jumped off the roof, turning in the air, peering in the windshield as he came down, machine gun at the ready.

He landed on the parking lot. “We’ve got what looks like two KIA in the front of the van. The Courier and some girl who got double-tapped.”

“Roger,” Moms said. “Inbound.”

Roland put his back against the front fender of the van, half-crouched out of sight of the interior just in case one of the apparently dead people wasn’t dead — or was perhaps a zombie — and somehow blew out the bulletproof glass and came after him. But he figured the priority was whoever had done the killing, and they were outside somewhere.

He heard the whine of the Snake, muffled by the trucks passing on the interstate. The fast ropes came down and then the rest of the team. The Snake went back out to hover over the wilderness to the west and provide cover.

Moms was on point, appearing out of the surrounding darkness. Nada and Kirk went past and spread out, putting themselves as security between the van and the truck stop, going to a knee, their weapons at the ready. Mac joined Roland along with Nada and Moms.

“Why’d you land on the roof?” Mac asked. “If it’s rigged with a motion detonator, you’d have set it off.”

Roland shrugged. “I like having the high ground. Guess it isn’t rigged with a motion detonator. One less thing for you to check.”

Mac didn’t need to be told what to do. There was a Protocol for a Courier van. He nodded and the rest of them moved away.

Mac moved quickly but efficiently. Running his hands gently everywhere his eyes went, as coordinated as Nada had been with the JMPI. Mac was also sniffing as he searched, and listening, head slightly cocked. Mac had once defused fourteen IEDs along a single stretch of road in Afghanistan in less than six hours. Like Roland and free-fall parachuting, Mac had taken his craft to an art form. He finished the exterior. Then he put on a headlamp and turned it on. He slid underneath, covering the entire bottom, slithering along the ground. Finally he came out from under the van and turned the lamp off.

“No break-in,” he reported. “No triggers. The outside is clean.”

Moms signaled and they moved back to the van. Moms gestured and Roland held out his cupped hands as he squatted. Moms stepped into his massive hands and he easily lifted her up so she could look down in the front.

“Two KIA,” Moms confirmed. “Open her up, Mac.”

“Clear,” Mac said.

Roland put Moms back down and they moved back once more, leaving Mac alone. He took out the remotes he’d programmed on the flight in, using the data from the Depot for this van. One by one he turned off the alarms and locks.

He walked over and put his hand on the driver’s handle. Mac cracked the door, checking for tripwires. Satisfied, he jerked the door open.

The Courier tumbled out and Mac stepped out of the way, letting the body slam onto the pavement as he went up on the step, weapon at the ready. “She’s been double-tapped,” he reported.

He stepped back down and checked the Courier. “Knife up through the jaw. He went quick.”

Mac went around to the back and opened the two heavy doors. “Bad news. Safe is open. The Package is gone.”

Moms and the rest of the team other than the two men on security came up. They all went to the rear first, looking in.

“The van was locked and secure, right?” Moms asked.

“Correct,” Mac answered.

“Fuck,” Nada said. “Inside job.”

“Rig it for sling load and let’s get it out of here,” Moms said, but she was looking about, into the darkness. Because someone out there had done the impossible.

Five kilometers away, in the foothills of the Wasatch Mountains, Burns was watching through a night-vision scope as the team rigged the van to be hauled away. It had gone down exactly as Burns had experienced numerous times in the past as a member of the Nightstalkers.

According to Protocol.

Nada and his Protocols.

Burns nodded.